THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Wednesday, January 24, 1996 TAG: 9601240355
SECTION: FRONT PAGE: A1 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY SANJA OMANOVIC, CORRESPONDENT
DATELINE: SARAJEVO, BOSNIA-HERZEGOVINA LENGTH: Medium: 73 lines
Time has stopped for them in some indefinite moment. Maybe they don't remember when it happened, and it is not important for them anymore.
Now they live in a gray building with a lot of windows. There are bars on them; behind the bars, plastic sheets.
It is Sarajevo's home of sadness.
It is called Psychiatrists' Clinic, and it is full of patients.
``I just cannot forget his name and his face. Wherever I go, whatever I do, I think about him. Did he have a family? A mother? What kind of person was he?'' A.K. asked.
A.K. is 21. He was a soldier, and he killed another soldier in battle. In the beginning, he thought: ``I have killed the enemy.'' But later on, that enemy became his obsession. A.K. couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't do anything. There was only one thing on his mind: that dead soldier.
``It was all my fault,'' A.K. said. ``I found his I.D. with his name, date of birth and address on it. I shouldn't have looked at it. I threw it away later, but it was too late. I'd already remembered everything - every single letter, every number.''
His hands were shaking, but he pretended not to notice. Two fingers were yellow from holding cigarettes, and he smoked constantly, with a passion. It seemed as if his life depended on that moment's cigarette.
``My family visits me very often. Mother usually tells me, `What is going on with you? It was war. You had to defend yourself. If you hadn't killed him, he would have killed you.' Father says that I am young and that my whole life is in front of me. I know that is true, and at the same time, it is not. I feel so old.''
A.K.'s head fell slowly. A medical technician explained that he was under a doctor's treatment. The technician said he would be OK soon. But a look into his empty eyes left room for doubt.
There are several departments in the clinic. The first floor is reserved for urgent cases. Two big rooms there hold nothing but beds - two long rows of them. There is also an intensive care department where anxious patients lie in their beds. Some of them are tied in.
A girl lay in one of them. She had long, unkempt hair. Her eyes were closed, but she whispered something: ``No. Don't do that to me. Please. No. Don't do that to me. Please.'' She repeated the words in a flat monotone, again and again.
``She has been here more than seven months,'' the technician said. ``She saw her mother die in their home. It was a shell. She and her mother were in the same room, but the mother got all the shell fragments.''
It was time for lunch. The dining room, with a TV set in the corner, was full. This day, they had macaroni and cheese. There are no forks or knives in the clinic. The patients are allowed to use only spoons.
``You can never know how they will react. You cannot know it outside, either.'' The technician shook his head.
``Are you a journalist?'' one older woman asked. When she got a positive answer, she asked: ``Why don't you have a camera?'' She was told it wasn't necessary to take a picture. ``You don't need a picture anyway. What for? But I need one. Do you know somebody who can take a picture of my soul?''
This time there was no answer.
The air was full of the smells of medicine and food. Somebody was singing a folk song. On the other side, an old man sat on the floor. His shoulders were shaking. He was crying quietly.
All of them, residents in a house of sadness.
Really, is there anybody who can take a picture of their souls? ILLUSTRATION: Color photo
Sanja Omanovic, a Bosnian journalist, was a National Forum
Foundation visiting fellow at The Virginian-Pilot.
KEYWORDS: BOSNIA CIVIL WAR by CNB